Numbers
by the Beginning and the End
Summary: In which Marco is good at guessing things and Jean has pizza sauce on his face.


There was pizza sauce all over his damn face because of this boy. Fucking pizza sauce, and he was wearing a white shirt today too, and Marco knew that. He was the one who suggested he wear it for the night out. _Fucking Freckled Jesus, my ass, my best friend is the epitome of evil. _

And he had the audacity to _laugh._ It was making his eyes all fucking sparkly, like a goddamn manga. Marco didn't even bother hiding it, he merely grabbed a couple napkins and dipped one of them into his cup of water. "Oops. Sorry Jean,"

"Don't 'oops' me, you little shit."

"Here, I'll get it," The wet napkin, after carefully wrung out, was being lifted toward his face to wipe the condiment off without letting any little droplet of moisture fall onto the table.

Jean snatched it away. "Back off, asswipe, you've done enough damage for one night."

"Oh, come on Jean, there's no need to get-" He said this with a straight face, _he said this with a fucking straight face-_ "saucy."

Jean didn't hesitate. He threw the napkin at Marco's head, pizza sauce be damned. "You're a fucking idiot, do you understand, a fucking idiot." He tried to ignore the laughter as he attempted in cleaning off his face with the remaining napkins.

"I can't believe Connie and Sasha missed _the greatest pun ever._" Marco finally wheezed out, grinning at him cheekily. Sasha had left for the bathroom five minutes ago, and Connie had to make a phone call seconds after. Jean could only be grateful that he only had to deal with one loser at the moment.

"Why am I friends with you again?" Jean groaned, and since his face was now clean, he could put his head in his hands in exasperation like any normal human being when they encountered someone with Marco's sense of humor.

This was a rhetorical question, of course, but every time it came up, Marco answered anyway. Jean couldn't say he wasn't pleased at this; it was nice to be reminded how good a person Marco was, and Jean felt happy every time the reply of "Because I'm the only one who can deal with you," came. Not many people could do so. Marco would, for the rest of their friendship. Sometimes Jean forgot how damn lucky he was to have Marco, even with the bad humor and potentially sticky situations that came with it. Jean was not an easy person to be with. Marco could look past that like no one else could. He wouldn't know what he would do without him.

There was a pause. Marco normally didn't pause. Jean looked up, and Marco's face was a lot closer to his than it was before, and there was a sly smirk decorating his lips. "Because I know things about you even you don't know," His eyes were sparkling again, this time with cockiness, and his grin widened.

Jean didn't even stop to consider the possibility of being confused. There was a challenge on the table, right next to the dirty napkins. "Yeah right, like what?"

Marco leaned closer, until there was almost no breathing room between the two. It was then Jean realized that Marco had his hand stretched out behind Jean's back, trapping him in what seemed to be a friendly manner, nothing other than playful intimidation, but it was too different too be comfortable, even though Jean didn't feel anything other than confidence that he had the upper hand. Nothing Marco said could throw him off. "In two months and three days, at around eleven o'clock, you're going to realize you're in love with me."

God fucking dammit, Jean hated being wrong.

_W-What the hell?_

He kept going. "In two months and ten days, at around four o'clock, you're going to ask me out."

Jean's mind was blank. The question just popped out, like it wasn't even from his own mouth. "And what are you going to say?" He was surprised to hear his voice was a little breathless, and were his cheeks burning a little? It was way too hot in that pizza place.

"You'll just have to find out," Marco said smoothly, backing away once Connie ambled back to the table.

It was such a weird event.

So naturally Jean forgot about it.

He was probably just messing around. Marco had an odd sense of humor. It didn't mean anything.

Two weeks passed, and nothing strange occurred. The two had proceeded as if nothing had happened.

Three weeks passed, and Jean started to become aware of the occasional glances they got in public when they laughed too loudly, or grinned to brightly. The glances of 'wow, cute' and 'God dammit that one was hot just my luck he's taken already'.

(Jean was convinced those were about him.)

(By week four he wasn't so sure. Marco had those stupid, attractive freckles and his eyes were kind and bright and _damn he had a nice ass_.)

(He was straight, not blind.)

At week five, when Mikasa actually gave him the time of day, Jean didn't feel the bubbly excited feeling he thought he would get. (But Marco was happy for him, and that was cute).

By week six, Jean started to take into consideration what exactly it meant when two people talked on the phone until midnight, ultimately losing their sleep every night, even though they lived in the same town and saw each other every day. They couldn't go a night without talking together. It was the best part of Jean's day.

Seven weeks. Jean was feverishly aware of where Marco placed his hands on his body. A clap on the shoulder. A brush of finger against finger. A flick to the forehead because apparently Jean was dumb and Jean only grinned at this. He was finding his jokes funnier, and seeing more of his kind side, and Jean realized his deep hatred for that guy Thomas in their art class because it turned out he had a crush on Marco.

(Not that he could blame him. Who didn't like Marco? Everyone liked Marco.)

(Yes, even Jean.)

(They were friends.)

(Something like that.)

What do you call a friendship where you're so close to one another they're always on your mind, and their happiness is the first thought in your head when you have to write a stupid list of things that are important to you for your dumb English IV class, and their face is the image you see when you fall asleep, wake up, and every moment in between, counting the number of breaths it will take to see them again?

There had to be a word for it.

Armin approached him at the two month point. "Something on your mind, Jean?"

There were several things on his mind, three of them having to do with a certain freckled boy, one of them beating the shit out of Eren, and another being his English paper. "No, why?"

Armin gave him a withering look. "I can help you, you know."

"With my English paper? That would be great."

Apparently, what Armin had in mind had nothing to do with The Great Gatsby, so he left with a shake of his head and a mumble of what sounded like the word "idiot".

"Armin's been acting weird," Jean later complained to Connie, thinking about the pointed looks and obvious eye rolls directed at him since then.

"No dude, _you've_ been acting weird." Connie laughed.

"Have not."

"You're spacing out and shit. Looking at Marco like how Sasha looks at cupcakes."

"Am not."

But was he? Jean couldn't put his finger on it, but for some reason when he was with Marco the world around him slowed, went soft along the edges.

Three days later, Jean was relaxing, enjoying a video game, and talking to Marco on the phone as he did so. Marco was talking about something dumb Ymir did in chemistry class, and Jean was paying more attention to him than his boss battle, and this had disastrous consequences. "You son of a bitch, I'm fucking dead because of you!" Jean interrupted.

"Ah, sorry Jean. I thought you would be done with that level by now. Didn't you get that cheat code I sent you?"

"I play fair."

"You nerd."

And his laugh was the only thing that mattered. Jean was grinning like a fool, his forgotten controller sliding out of his slack fingers, and he didn't want to do anything else but kiss Marco's dumb, freckled face.

Jean froze.

_Oh my God. _

"H-Hey, Marco, I think I'm gonna go to bed, I got a history test tomorrow."

"Alright, good luck. I'll run through some famous battles with you in third period."

"Thanks." Jean hung up. He took a deep breath, and dialed Connie's number. "Connie!" he yelped.

"What?"

"_I think I'm in love with Marco_."

"Is that really it? Dude, it's eleven at night, I'm watching a movie with Sasha, it's too late for this shit."

"_But what do I-_"

"Call Armin."

Armin had no useful advice. "Don't worry about it, just talk to him."

Yeah right._ Jean_ talking about his _feelings_? He wasn't that desperate.

(Yet.)

(After two days, he had started to avoid him to make sure his secret would stay a secret, until he figured out what to say.)

(Marco wasn't making it easy. He would give Jean puppy dog eyes every time he left the room purposefully, and Jean could hardly restrain himself from tackling him.)

_Stay strong Jean, one more day. _

A week after Jean had his realization, he went over to Marco's house at around four o'clock. They were going to marathon the Harry Potter series the whole weekend. It was Marco's idea.

And he called him a nerd.

Marco opened the door with his signature sparkling grin. "Jean!" he greeted happily. "I got the pop corn ready and everything, we can just start whenever."

Jean had intended to wait until after the movies. He really did. He didn't want to have to sit through all eight movies with him if he said no, making things awkward and uncomfortable. But Marco was just_ too cute._ Jean couldn't handle it. "_Marcowillyougooutwithme?_"

"What?"

Jean blushed, _God dammit pull yourself together_. "Would this be weird if this was like, a date? Like, you know, a date-date?"

Marco smiled softly, his eyes glowing. "No, not at all."

"I mean, it's okay- what?"

"Yeah, I'll go out with you."

Jean probably looked stupid, standing outside on Marco's porch in the middle of winter, cheek flaming and a dumb grin on his face, but he didn't care. He hadn't planned on him saying yes. "That's... That's really great. This is really great. I mean- "

Someone was kissing him. "You're such a dork," Marco said when he pulled away.

After the movies were over Marco sleepily told his new boyfriend, "In ten years, six months, and seventeen days, at around six o'clock, you're going to propose to me."

"Enough with your freaking numbers, I'm trying to sleep."

Marco only smiled, because he knew he wouldn't be wrong.


End file.
